Part 65

Would it not be too trying for an old gentleman's eyes to read the fine print of the Gazette? Alas! no. Mr Moulton's eyes were not the kind that recoiled from anything so trivial as light or darkness; and hardly had we finished our coffee than out came the Gazette. We all listened, apparently; some dozed, some kept awake out of politeness or stupefaction; Mademoiselle Wissembourg, without any compunction, resigned herself to slumber, as she had done for the last twenty-five years.

Delsarte squirmed with agony as he heard the French language, and murmured to himself that he had lived in vain. What had served all his art, his profound diagnosis of voice-inflections, his diagrams on the wall, the art of enunciation, and so forth? He realized, for the first time, what his graceful language could become del bocca Americana!

Delsarte's idea of evening-dress was worthy of notice. He wore trousers of the workman type, made in the reign of Louis Philippe, very large about the hips, tapering down to the ankles; a flowing redingote, dating from the same reign, shaped in order to fit over the voluminous trousers; a fancy velvet waistcoat and a huge tie bulging over his shirt-front (if he had a shirt-front, which I doubt). He asked permission to keep on his calotte, which I fancy had not left his skull since the Revolution of 1848.

Massenet, who had come in from the country for the day to confer with his editor, received our invitation just in time to dress and join us. After the Gazette we awoke to life, and Massenet played some of the "Poème de Souvenir," which he has dedicated to me (I hope I can do it justice). What a genius he is! Massenet always calls Auber le Maître, and Auber calls him le cher enfant.

Auber also played some of his melodies with his dear, wiry old fingers, and while he was at one piano Massenet put himself at the other (we have two in the ballroom), and improvised an enchanting accompaniment. I wished they could have gone on forever.

Who would have believed that, in the enjoyment of this beautiful music, we could have forgotten we were in the heart of poor, mutilated Paris--in the hands of a set of ruffians dressed up like soldiers? Bombs, bloodshed, Commune, and war were phantoms we did not think of.

Delsarte, in the presence of genius, refused to sing "Il pleut, il pleut, Bergère," but condescended to declaim "La Cigalle ayant chanté tout l'été," and did it as he alone can do it. When he came to the end of the fable, "Eh bien, dansez maintenant," he gave such a tragic shake to his head that the voluminous folds of his cravat became loosened and hung limply over his bosom.

I sang the "Caro Nome" of "Rigoletto," with Massenet's accompaniment. Every one seemed pleased; even Delsarte went as far as to compliment me on the expression of joy and love depicted on my face and thrown into my voice, which was probably correct, according to diagram ten on his walls.

He now felt he had not lived in vain.

It being almost midnight, our guests took their departure.

There were only two carriages before the door, Mr. Washburn's and Auber's. Mr. Washburn took charge of the now very sleepy Delsarte, who declaimed a sepulchral bonsoir and disappeared, his redingote waving in the air.

The maître took the cher enfant, or rather the cher enfant led the maître out of the salon. The family retired to rest. The Gazette Officielle had long since vanished with its master, and was no doubt being perused in the privacy of the boudoir above, the odious dress-coat and pumps replaced by robe de chambre and slippers. Henry said the next morning he had had a bad night;... he had dreamt that the whole German army was waiting outside of Paris, shelling the town with peas.

April 1, 1871.

Beaumont wished to accompany us to the ambulance to-day, thinking that he might get an idea for a sketch; but, though he had his album and pencils with him, he did not accomplish much.

We sat by the bedside of the German officer, and Beaumont made a drawing of him. The officer said in a low tone to me, "Is that the famous artist Beaumont?"

I replied that it was.

"I am so glad to have an opportunity to see him, as I have heard so much of him, and have seen a great many of his pictures in Germany."

This I repeated to Beaumont, and it seemed to please him very much.

When we left, Beaumont said to him, showing him the sketch, "Would you like this?"

The officer answered in the most perfect French, "I shall always keep it as a precious souvenir"; and added, "May I not have a sketch of my nurse?" (meaning me).

Beaumont thought that it was rather presuming on the part of the officer to ask for it, and seemed annoyed. However, he made a hasty drawing and gave it to him, saying in his blunt way, "I hope this will please you." The officer thanked him profusely, and we left. Turning to me he said: "I have not profited much by this visit. I have given, but not taken anything away."

"But the experience," I ventured to say.

"Oh yes, the experience; but that I did not need."

In the evening we had one of our drowsy games of whist, made up of Countess B----, our neighbor opposite, brought across the street in her sedan-chair (she never walks), Mr. Moulton, myself, and Beaumont making the sleepy fourth. Neither of our guests speaks English with anything like facility, but they make frantic efforts to carry on the game in English, as Mr. Moulton has never learned the game in French and only uses English terms.

Mr. Moulton always plays with Countess B----, and I always play with Beaumont; we never change partners.

This is the kind of game we play:

It takes Beaumont a very long time to arrange his cards, which he does in a unique way, being goaded on by Mr. Moulton's impatient "Well!" He picks out all the cards of one suit and he lays them downward on the table in a pile; then he gathers them up and puts them between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. With the next suit he does likewise, placing them between the second and third fingers, and so on, until the grand finale, when the fingers loosen and the cards amalgamate. During this process his cards fall every few minutes on the floor, occasioning much delay, as they have all to be arranged again.

It is my deal; I turn up a heart. The Countess is on my left. We wait with impatience for her to play, but she seems only to be contemplating her cards.